Split Ends

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Mom!”

  My mother starts to run down the hallway, and the two burly men in black follow her and bring her back to the doorway as she bicycles her legs like an upturned cockroach.

  “Just a few questions, ma’am.”

  Feeling sick, I look into my mother’s eyes. She refuses to look at me. She would have let the police take me. My own mother . . .

  Somehow that changes things for me. Once and for all I realize she has totally abused and neglected me my whole life. Perhaps I’m slow that it’s taken me this long, but at this moment, I feel every shred of anger I’ve held on to all these years rise in my throat to the point where I let out a carnal scream that is anything but human in nature.

  The front door of Ann’s apartment opens slowly, and Jaime peeks her head out. “You all right, Sarah?”

  “I’m fine.”

  At the sound of my name, the police officers come toward me. “You’re Sarah Claire Winowski?” He holds out a passport with my name on it and my mother’s picture.

  She didn’t.

  “Yes, but I have a feeling you’re not really looking for me. I don’t actually have a passport. Never did.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” She points at the cop. “You can’t prove anything.”

  I’m thinking they can prove a fake passport pretty quickly.

  Jaime shuts the door gently, an act that brings me to a full boil when I look at my mom. “You just had to do this, didn’t you? You just had to ruin anything I did on my own. It wasn’t enough that you had an entire town disgusted with me; you had to follow me here and ruin it all. Whoever my father is, he was right to get away from you.”

  I regret it as soon as it’s out. But it’s out. She mumbles under her breath but doesn’t look at me when she says it. “You ungrateful little minx.”

  “Ungrateful? I’m ungrateful? Were you grateful when I had food waiting for you when you came home from work? When I schlepped down to the food kitchen to make sure there was food in the cupboards at ten years old? When I alphabetized the cans because I knew what you’d say if the beans weren’t in front of the corn? Were you, Mom?”

  “Ladies, I need to see some identification,” one of the officers says.

  I’m shaking, not in fear but in distinct anger. These cops can’t do anything to me that my mother hasn’t already done. I stare at her antiquated beauty buried beneath the years of alcohol abuse, and I realize I’ve reached my limit. Enough is enough. One day at a time is one day too much at the moment. I’ve been an idiot, playing into all her manipulations. There’s no excuse for what I’ve let happen! No wonder Mrs. Gentry thinks I don’t speak up for myself.

  “I have to get my ID in the apartment.”

  I creep into the apartment as quietly as possible, but all the girls are huddled together in a circle, and their whispers stop abruptly when I enter the room. “I just need to get my purse. Thanks for the invitation, Ann and Jaime. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Maybe.

  No one answers me, and I pad back to the front door like a repentant child and watch as my mother is hauled off in handcuffs.

  “We have our suspect, ma’am. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  chapter 18

  Dramatic art in her opinion is

  knowing how to fill a sweater.

  ~ Bette Davis

  I wish I had a door to slam rather than this stupid, sliding elevator door into my cousin’s condo. Sometimes a girl needs to make a statement! If I looked at the sunny side of life, I’d see that at least I know the door’s combination now, and where I live, and I possess a working cell phone. Since I can spell my middle name, I can officially graduate from Kindergarten of LA and maybe even own a library card. Oh, wait a minute, still need to learn my phone number by heart for that.

  “What happened to you?” Scott looks me over.

  “You don’t want to know.” I toss down my bag and flop on the couch next to Dane, who’s reading a giant biography of a dead president. “You’re not actually reading that, right? It’s just hiding a copy of MAD magazine?”

  “MAD? How old are you?”

  “I’m telling you, she’s from another era, Dane. It’s like someone dropped her in a time machine of her own making. She’s Doc Brown gone awry.”

  “You know, Scott—” I slam my purse down. “—just one small moment of peace. Please?”

  “I take it by your mood your mother found you,” Scott says. “She called here looking for you. I tried to confuse her by telling her the salon was called Ishi—you know, California’s last Indian—but she had it written down.”

  “How does she do it, Scott? How does she not have money to pay the water bill but manage to get out of parole, get on a plane across three states, and stumble into my mentoring group in less than twenty-four hours? Did she get me one of those dog microchips while I slept? Is this all some dire plan and I’m really the daughter of a KGB agent who poses as the town drunk? maybe I can go into a witness protection program and hide from her.”

  “She’s a professional. That’s what cons do. They spend more time looking for how to make the scam work than just doing things the honest way.”

  Dane is avoiding eye contact. I’m sure a lifeless president is far more interesting, but due to our kiss he owes me more attention. “Ahem.”

  Still nothing.

  “It’s all right, Dane, I’m aware that you can’t relate to my have-not family issues.”

  He looks up with that “Wha—? Huh?” look men have perfected. “Sorry?” He puts his book on the sofa. “I wasn’t listening.”

  He was, however, listening when I said I’d come to the beach house with kisses, wasn’t he?

  “I said can I cut your hair? I haven’t cut hair in a month, and I’m getting itchy fingers. I need to style someone. And if you aren’t screaming for a new ’do, I don’t know who is. Come to the kitchen.”

  “I—uh—you didn’t say that. I don’t think—”

  “You’re eccentric. I know.” I grab a kitchen chair and my kit from beside the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you slightly off-key, but you need a haircut. It’s driving me nuts. You’re like Hugh Jackman as Wolverine. David Beckham with a ponytail. I can’t take it anymore; it’s not natural. Good-looking men lacking proper hygiene is not right.”

  “Hygiene? I’m clean. Are you insinuating I'm not clean?”

  “Don’t you watch Grey's Anatomy? Dr. McDreamy is all about the hair. Do you know how many men are coming into the salon asking to look like him? Well, here, I mean. In Sable, no one ever heard of him, and they certainly wouldn’t want to look like a neurosurgeon. It’s all about the cowboy there.”

  He pats his head nervously. “I don’t think I really need a cut. I was just asking you yesterday as a topic of conversation, but it’s really not bothering me.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Scott asks him.

  “Let me rephrase my answer,” Dane says, with his palms up as he backs away. “Sarah, darling, you’re angry, and it’s a strict policy of mine never to let an angry woman near my hair—or anything else, for that matter—with sharp instruments. I may not be a rocket scientist, but this much I know.”

  “Sit down.” I have my hands on the back of the chair and I pick it up and drop it slightly. “I’m not playing. I need to get back in to it. Do you know how many garbage cans I’ve emptied? How many times I’ve lowered the toilet seat?”

  He shakes his head.

  “That man uses a small can for garbage on purpose. Do you know how much hair I swept today? Without cutting any of it? Do you know how many soy lattes I made?”

  “Yeah . . .” Dane shakes his head. “I’m not letting you near my head.”

  “Dane,” I growl.

  “No.” He laughs. “Did you ever see The Barber of Seville ?”

  I step toward him, and he steps back. “Only the Bugs Bunny version. Don’t try to impress me.”

  “The opera is not as bad as all that. The Count and Rosina are married at the
end. It’s romantic.”

  “Are you proposing?”

  He gets that caged-animal look.

  “So a haircut isn’t sounding all that bad.” Scott laughs.

  “Can I trust her?” Dane asks Scott.

  “She’s the best Sable, Wyoming, has to offer.”

  “I’m better than that. Really.”

  Dane fingers his hair. “I’ll relent on one condition.”

  All I can think about is cutting someone’s hair and having an actual “after” following several weeks of not working. “Whatever you want.”

  “We watch a movie first or we play a board game. When you calm down, I’ll trust you with scissors.” His eyes narrow, and it makes me smile. “Or you can watch that worn-out DVD of Notorious.”

  I can’t wait to get my hands on his hair. “I’m not that angry,” I whine. “Well, maybe I am, but it won’t affect my work.”

  “I’d like to see the results of haircuts following that statement. I imagine they’re something like, ‘I haven’t had that much to drink, officer.’ Or perhaps the visual equivalent of a Rorschach inkblot image.”

  “Monopoly’s not my thing. I’ll wash your hair first. How’s that? That’s relaxing, and there are no shears involved. I’ve learned to do that the Yoshi way. You’ll love it. I think it’s illegal in other countries.”

  My cousin is in the kitchen, his shoulders shaking with laughter. “Go ahead, Lurch. I’m here to chaperone if you’re scared.”

  Dane finally relents. I mean, accepts my offer of a haircut. We head to the kitchen sink and I pull out my first bottles of Yoshi shampoo, which he charged me a small fortune for—at cost. Give me a break. It contains seaweed amino acids, tea tree oil, and a host of other reasons to charge three times what it’s worth. It smells divine, though, even with the tea tree oil, which usually smells nasty. It’s hypnotic in some ways, but maybe that’s just Dane’s distrusting gaze, eyeing me as if he’s my lamb to the slaughter.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Come here and bend over the sink. I’ll rinse your hair and give you a wash.”

  Dane’s glare is unnerving me. I keep reliving the kiss every time I look at his lips. They’re all I can see. Rodeo Drive and the lap of luxury and I will forever think of it as my first foray into PDA.

  He bends over the sink, taking one look back at me. “You’re going to be gentle, right?”

  “It’s the Yoshi way.” I shrug and push his head down. “If you came into the shop after hours, I could do this at a rinse sink and it would be much more comfortable.”

  He lifts his head up, looking back at me again. “I don’t think I want to feel much more comfortable with you, Sarah.”

  I watch my cousin’s brows lift and shake my head at him. Nothing’s going on, I mouth.

  That’s not good. It’s getting easier to lie without guilt.

  A wave of warmth shoots through my system, and my hand releases from the sprayer, halting the water’s flow. Scott is staring at me as if he knows the entire story and my little flirtation is no longer secret. Granted, the mauling on Rodeo Drive told anyone driving by the same thing, but this is different. We know Scott.

  “What’s the matter?” Dane asks. “You stopped the water.”

  “Nothing,” I answer. “Nothing at all.” I look at Scott and shake my head slightly. Scott gives me a look, and I turn the water back on so Dane can’t hear, then lean over to whisper, “Don’t say a word. I’ll get over it. I got over Steve Harris.”

  But I’m not going to get over it that easily. Dane will always represent what I wanted in life: an intelligent have with a hint of charity for simple country girls. Cary Grant for the cerebral set.

  I’m rubbing my temple when I hear a hollow clunk against the stainless-steel sink.

  “Oh, Dane, I’m sorry. Are you all right?” I surround his damp head with a towel and help him stand up right.

  He rubs his own temple. “This is what Yoshi teaches, huh? You say he’s a rich man?”

  “I’m so sorry, I was thinking about something else and Scott looked at me . . . It was Scott’s fault!” I point toward my cousin.

  “I knew you were a little too angry to be touching sharp instruments. Even the kitchen sink is a weapon.”

  When he looks at me I forget all about Scott being near us. “I—I was thinking about Rodeo Drive.”

  The corner of his lip curves. “I’ll never feel the same way about overpriced merchandise again.”

  “Am I missing something?” Scott asks.

  Dane and I look at each other, but Dane speaks first. “I picked your cousin up from work last night and offered to take her to the ocean, but we walked Rodeo Drive instead.”

  “Did you get some clothes there?”

  “Oh, sure, I picked up some Michael Kors after my trip to Tiffany’s for a new tennis bracelet. The old one was getting so five minutes ago.”

  With a Whatever look, my cousin stalks off. I gently unwrap the towel, place Dane’s head back down, and rub where I slammed him into the sink. Okay, I didn’t slam him, but I feel as though I did.

  The worst part is that I mentioned Rodeo Drive, and now that’s all I’m thinking of—while I’m massaging his head. Not good. I start to repeat Scripture silently to get my mind off where it shouldn’t be. “Marriage should be honored by all, and the marriage bed kept pure, for God will judge the adulterer and all the sexually immoral.” There’s a reason I memorized that one.

  Dane lifts his head slowly and tilts his chin toward me with his brown eyes ablaze. “Let’s just cut this part short, shall we? I already washed it this morning.”

  “I didn’t use conditioner on you,” I ramble. “It’s definitely not the Yoshi way. The head massage is generally five minutes or more.” He looks at me and we both nod. “Right. We’ll cut it short.”

  Dane takes my hand at the wrist. “Sometimes . . . too much of a good thing is—” He looks down at me and I’d swear he was going to kiss me again. I forget the Scripture I was thinking about, which makes me feel like a complete and utter failure.

  With Dane settled into the chair, I comb gently through his hair and position my scissors. All thoughts of my mother and my angst have disappeared. Who’s in jail again? Dane’s hair is thick and soft, with subtle curls at the end. “You’ll never go bald.”

  He nods. “My dad never did.” His eyes meet mine.

  “So I’m going to put some layers in. It’ll be much more manageable in the mornings.”

  “I'm not really a product sort of guy, Sarah. I pride myself on being the one man in LA who can say that.”

  “Fine, it will still be perfectly acceptable even if it is a little frizzy on foggy days. Your choice.”

  “You make it sound like I have one. It’s humid here; you’re supposed to have a little frizz. It’s how you know something’s going on in my head. Lot of static-electricity action.”

  “Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong. Frizz is never good.”

  Scott has disappeared, and I feel our solitude intensely.

  “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he asks very quietly.

  “I’m trying to cut your hair evenly.”

  “Why don’t you come to France with me on my buying trip? I would love to take you to the Louvre and to see where Dumas wrote The Three Musketeers. You know they say he embarked on his career as a romantic by fighting his first duel and having his pants fall down. He’s my romantic muse, you know.”

  “Dane, is there a normal fact you can share with me?”

  “Casablanca was filmed in France.”

  “Dane.”

  “To Catch a Thief also.”

  “Dane.”

  “I’m serious. Separate rooms. No monkey business.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?” I ask him, our chemistry sizzling like a live wire. “You won’t even let me wash your hair.”

  “No.” He slaps his knees. “No, I don’t, but I had to ask.”

  “Besides, I’m poor, D
ane. Rich people don’t understand that real people have no money. By that, I mean no money. Not ‘I have to wait for a CD to mature,’ not ‘I’ll pay a penalty to pull it out of my 401K or get a second mortgage to finance the cash I need,’ just simply ‘I have no money.’ I’m at my cousin’s house out of need, not because my kitchen is getting remodeled in my fabulous beach house. I don’t have a trust fund to fall back on or a travel write-off or any of those other tricks you people with money have.”

  “You people. Again with the bigotry! I wasn’t asking you to pay for the trip, Sarah.”

  I nod slowly. “I wouldn’t want to feel as if I owed you anything, Dane. I might be tempted to pay.”

  He stands up resolutely. “That wasn’t what I was asking at all. I wanted to show you the Louvre. Where Cary Grant played a notorious jewel thief. Okay, that was in Nice, mostly, so maybe not there, but where he was chased by Audrey Hepburn in Charade, where Dumas wrote Camille, where it played in the theatre. It was a spontaneous thought. Nothing more.”

  “Of course it was. I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I was protecting my own very tentative virtue.” I have spontaneous thoughts too, like let’s forget that you’re a have and I’m a have-not. And let’s run to the nearest church, profess our faith and say we can’t burn with desire any longer, and get married as quick as they’ll let us. But of course, those are the kind of thoughts that get you a one-way trip to the closest mental institution, so I don’t share them.

  “Hollywood moves at a pace I’m not used to, Dane. A cattle roundup is fast for me. I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

  “This has nothing to do with Hollywood. Or California, for that matter. I was asking for your company because I can’t stand to be away from you already, Sarah. You’re under my skin, and I hate it that you’re there.”

  “That’s romantic.”

  He walks away from me toward his room, his hair half cut, half layered. Then he pauses, comes back for his dead-president biography, and takes one last look at me. “I'm sorry. Values are not something you share because of how much money you have, or even that you have the same religion. Values are how you live. I like the way you live, Sarah. Who you are. So sue me.”